fee."

By the time the coffee was made, she had set forth an inviting little
supper. She sat opposite him and poured the coffee. It seemed to him some
way that it was the coziest meal he had eaten since his home days--the
early home days before his mother died and he had gone to the prunish
aunt.

"We must leave things as we found them," she told him when they could no
longer make excuse for lingering.

"I feel in a very domestic mood," he said, as he wiped the few dishes.

"Do you know I have a very hearthy feeling myself. I know why a cat purrs.
Everything is shipshape now. I'll say good night, and--"

"Come back to the fire," he entreated. "I want to smoke."

Back in the library Pen made herself comfortable on one of the window
seats, pulling up the shade to let the moonlight stream in.

He followed and sat beside her, watching in silence the pensive, young
profile, the straight little features, the parted lips, as she gazed away
over the moonlit hills. He felt a strange yearning tenderness.

"Pen!"

She turned, a sweet, alluring look in her eyes.

"Pen!" he said again.

"Yes--Kurt."

Some alien, inexplicable force seemed to battle with his nature. His lips
quivered and then compressed as if in a mighty resolution.

A moment later she slid from the window seat to the floor.

"It is late; good night!" she said quietly.

He rose, took her hand in his and said earnestly:

"Good night, Pen. I wish--"

Again he stopped abruptly.

"I know what you wish," she said in a matter of fact way; "you are wishing
that I had never been--a thief."

The color flooded his face; embarrassment, longing and regret struggled
visibly for mastery.

"Good night," she repeated, as she quickly sped from the room, leaving him
speechless.

Upstairs in her room she stood by the window.

"Kurt," she soliloquized, "you've been weighed and found wanting. You
don't know what love is. No man does. It is a woman's kingdom."

Then a radiant smile drove the reflective shadows from her eyes. There had
burst forth a whistle, clear, keen, inspiring. Only one person in her
world was so lark-like, so jubilant, so joyous of nature as to improvise
such a trilling melody.

With an expectant smile she looked out and saw Jo crossing the moonlit
lawn.

"Halloa, Jo!" she called softly.

He looked up, extended his cap at arm's length with a gay flourish and
called:

"Bless your little heart of honey! What are you doing up so late?"